Thursday, March 28, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
A black child would get a whupping
Having too many rules burdens down the entire family and limits thinking.Kids don’t need to learn to think, they need to learn to RESPECT!
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Jumping up and down in my seat, squealing and clapping
God fucking dammit I’m going to call you e-mail you and bring you out here
On certainty and knowing
Understanding Quran on present Day knowledge??
A knowlege that is prone to change at any time??
so should we keep changing Quran translation on the basis of Human knowledge??
or should we change Human knowledge on the basis of Quran??
Friday, March 22, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
I google like a 14-year-old girl
when I’m not googling 14-year-old girls
http://www.lovepanky.com/love-couch/sweet-love/falling-in-love-with-a-friend
http://www.wikihow.com/Avoid-Falling-in-Love-With-a-Friend
http://www.wikihow.com/Not-Fall-in-Love-With-Someone
http://www.letstalkrelations.com/falling-in-love-with-someone-you-cant-have.html Links2
http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_do_you_stop_yourself_from_falling_in_love_with_your_friend
http://www.luvcube.com/blog/2005/03/falling-in-love-with-friend-what-to-do.html
http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?t=179815
http://help.com/post/519835-i-think-im-falling-for-a-fri
http://www.lovepanky.com/love-couch/sweet-love/falling-in-love-with-a-friend
http://www.wikihow.com/Avoid-Falling-in-Love-With-a-Friend
http://www.wikihow.com/Not-Fall-in-Love-With-Someone
http://www.letstalkrelations.com/falling-in-love-with-someone-you-cant-have.html Links2
http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_do_you_stop_yourself_from_falling_in_love_with_your_friend
http://www.luvcube.com/blog/2005/03/falling-in-love-with-friend-what-to-do.html
http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?t=179815
http://help.com/post/519835-i-think-im-falling-for-a-fri
Sunday, March 17, 2013
I could be wrong but
anybody who has a 50 Cent album title tattooed on him probably isn't a neo-Nazi.
I wish I could put all my energy into making things right again with you and your husband
and I wish you could, too.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
I wake up after a fitful night (?) of sleep. I’d had the same problem the night before, and really, really meant to go to Goodwill to get a blanket—they wash their stuff before they put it out, right?—but instead had gotten totally sidetracked, meeting up with my sister to help her on her résumé and cover letter, forgetting the blanket thing. But, whatever, it’s Hawaii, and instead of complaining, I decide to make another go of it—it gets cold, but not that cold, and if worse came to worse I can always walk all the way to Wal-Mart or that 24-hour Walgreen’s across the street and buy a blanket.
Yet for another night, I don’t manage to sleep in the same spot from go-to-sleep- to wake-up-time; at some point later in the morning (4-ish?) I decide I'm both too exposed to the winds + that I might get discovered/roused anyway. So I actually find a pretty chill spot in a little office building across the street, a wood building with, like, a travel agent or something.
Yet it’s still chilly/cold on the pavement, even though the wind seems almost non-existent once I draw my head and arms into the sleeves of my T-shirt (how big must I wear these things that I have that much room in there, anyway?), and after a couple more hours, daylight has started to break, which is pretty much my enemy in the way it is Batman’s, and it’s time to skeedaddle. I really need to piss, though, even though I’ve already done so twice throughout the night, and there’s nowhere sheltered/vegetative enough that I feel comfortable peeing. So half with intent on checking up on a karaoke machine I saw abandoned by the kerb, half with no particular direction at all, I start off vaguely in the direction of a McDonald’s. Also, if I continue on, I can be near the far Goodwill, the one I wasn’t going to try going to, when it opens. It’s not so much the price—I know I shouldn’t give a shit about—what, a dollar, max?—but also suitability for a purpose, and since I’m not quite sure what that looks like, my obsessive-compulsiveness is making me want to check both Goodwills in town, even though one is, realistically, never on my way to anything, but not quite out of the way from where I find myself sometimes, the time it takes me to walk from one to the other is easily worth more than a dollar.
So I’m blundering more-or-less toward McDonald’s, but, really, keeping an eye out for, like, a bush on the side of the road, anybody’s yard I can piss in. Sometimes I wish I had less shame. But also I’m kind of along a main road, people are starting to wake up, even though it’s Saturday, and I don’t feel like getting bit or even barked at by some guard dog while I’m trying to piss on his property. So even though I’m ostensibly going to run into a McDonald’s at some point soon, really, in my mind, I’m thinking, “Jesus, I need to find somewhere soon.”
I even start down a few dead-end roads, knowing at least they’re immune to through traffic, but really don’t find anywhere I wouldn’t easily be spied by anyone glancing at the nascent sun out their window, to find me whizzing in their front yard. So, starting down a through-road beyond which is Micky D’s, but also well covered in foiliage and little trafficked, I’m appraising people’s hedges. I finally see a little nook not easily within the line of sight of anyone’s window, and think, “Fuck it, I’m going for it.” But—what’s this? Ah, urethra-blocked by morning pedestrians! Actually, one’s getting out of her car and socializing… OK, fuck this, I’m just going to McDonald’s. But as I continue, right before the intersection with the main road— What's this? Some sort of small office tucked in the residential neighborhood? Landscaping galore? Hallelujah! I see the morning pair starting to disperse and make some sort of pretense of checking whether one of the food joints around the corner is open yet… but I almost immediately double back to the office building as they’re walking the opposite way, on the other side of the street… I am going to go behind this building and unleash a— No, wait? What’s this? Oh, all these trees in front of the office building are even better; that much closer! My bladder is practically rejoicing now, singing a song of joy as I duck behind a wooden partition and get ready to water the tree trunk of this tastefully gardened… whatever-it-is; probably a pediatrician or a psychologist or something. “Easy little guy,” I tell it; in fact, I’m worried a drop or two may have escaped at a few false-alarm prospects for relief along the way. Really, I should have just clenched my sphincter, taken a deep breath, been resolute, and thought about something else, firm about waiting till I got to McDonald’s, the proper societally-ordained receptacle for my urine, regardless of if there was a line for the bathroom once I got there or whatever. But I’d given my body too much false hope, and now was the time. I fumbled with my jeans, unbuttoning them and reaching to yank down the front of my boxers and— Oh, God, no. No, no; hang on, hang on; not yet!
I’ve pissed myself. This has literally never happened in my adult life. Or even in, like, grade school. While still trying to somehow remove my underwear from between the exit valve of my dick and its intended target the switch got thrown early and hot, clear urine started gushing forth before I’d fully figured out how to remove my jeans, and my boxers. I feel ashamed as the remaining stream snakes its way out of me, leaving my muscles feel relieved. It’s the same muscle even, a failure of the part of the mind that controls the sphincter, that self-loathing disappointment as when you finish too quickly. If only, if only, if only, you find yourself saying, trying to rerun the chain of events leading up to the breach in your mind, but, really, if you’d been present and aware of your thoughts in the moments before it probably wouldn’t have happened. Jesus, I didn’t even have that much piss, relatively speaking. I mean, I had to go bad, but just normal I’ve-had-a-lot-to-drink bad, not long-car-ride-so-long-I-time-it-and-I-swear-I-pissed-for-like-a-minute-and-a-half bad. I’m grateful I happen to be exercising uncharacteristic foresight and happened to have another pair of underwear in my bag this time—though certainly not forseen for anything like this. God, I hate getting old. I need to take better care of myself, like Andie was saying last night. But it’s hard when you’re sleeping outside. I slink toward the McDonald’s anyway, now to change my boxers, checking the dampness of my jeans and feeling the wetness cool in the morning air.
The stall in the men’s bathroom is—thankfully—unoccupied—I don’t want this wetness to seep any further, and I go in there and yank down pants, setting my bags on the changing table, now trying to plotting out how to remove my jeans and boxers, put on new boxers and then my pants again, without my bare feet touching the floor of the McDonald’s men’s room. Ah, fuck it, I figure; it’s not the cleanest, but, let’s be fucking real, neither is any public rest facility, and I’ve been kind of meaning to take a shit since last night, since you’re here and your pants are down anyway, why not take a dump. So, dutifully wrapping about eight layers of toilet paper between my hand and the seat, I wipe it down, and then place the “sanitary” paper liner to sit on.
Damn. No Twitter reception in the toilet.
Lord knows what I’ve eaten (actually, I do—some ridiculously large two-patty burger for lunch—yes, two patties. What was I thinking?? It didn’t really register when I ordered… but it was good. And then about half a dozen doughnuts and a brownie for dinner.) and it’s not exactly falling right out of me. Also, because it’s that hard, struggle-to-get-out kind, when I’m convinced that all the major tonnage has made its way through, wiping is a bit of a chore. Klingons on the starboard bow, if you know what I mean. So I lean over to finally clean up this crime scene monstrosity ’neath my loins… and the stupid automated flusher sprays splash-back all over my bare ass, sucking the toilet set liner out from under me. God, I hate that. I give the seat another wipe-down for good measure, sit back down on the edge, and commence to doing as satisfactory a job as I can in as little time as possible.
Then I hear the distinct sound—I know it from just a few nights ago, myself—of vomiting. It happens once. Where? The urinal? The sink? This cannot be good. Then again. Oh, God; I’m usually pretty fastidious/compulsive/nuts about these things, but an ever-so-slight modicum of diligence goes down a notch; as soon as I can convince myself the paper’s clean, I’m out of there. Whatever’s happening out there, I don’t want to wade through. Especially not wearing sandals.
The door to the stall rattles. “Occupied,” I yell, “I’ll be out in a sec!” “I feel sick,” a voice replies, and I’m frantically tearing at the paper, violently dragging it across my anus, my mind flitting to what a shame it is that my less-than-pristine asshole may disgrace/spoil these fresh, clean underpants/boxers. I try to remember what kind of urinal it is; undoubtedly one of those new, low-flow kinds. Jesus, how much did it splatter? I wonder. I finally finish, stand up, the stupid, unthinking robot flushing for a third time behind me, and quickly step through my clean boxers, onto my shoes, then pull on my pants, grabbing my stuff and beating a hasty exit out the stall door. A man in a moustache and a leather jacket woozily stumbles into the stall behind me, and I debate even bothering to wash my hands, but being as the floor looks clean and the sink doesn’t appear vomited into, I can’t not after Number Two. Still, I soap and rinse as fast as I can and don’t even really bother with the hot-air hand dryer—then hit with the realization: dude barfed into the trash can, the old standby—before rushing out of the restroom. I hear the robot flush once more, no doubt backsplashing into this man’s face, as I exit.
It is 6:58 am.
Yet for another night, I don’t manage to sleep in the same spot from go-to-sleep- to wake-up-time; at some point later in the morning (4-ish?) I decide I'm both too exposed to the winds + that I might get discovered/roused anyway. So I actually find a pretty chill spot in a little office building across the street, a wood building with, like, a travel agent or something.
Yet it’s still chilly/cold on the pavement, even though the wind seems almost non-existent once I draw my head and arms into the sleeves of my T-shirt (how big must I wear these things that I have that much room in there, anyway?), and after a couple more hours, daylight has started to break, which is pretty much my enemy in the way it is Batman’s, and it’s time to skeedaddle. I really need to piss, though, even though I’ve already done so twice throughout the night, and there’s nowhere sheltered/vegetative enough that I feel comfortable peeing. So half with intent on checking up on a karaoke machine I saw abandoned by the kerb, half with no particular direction at all, I start off vaguely in the direction of a McDonald’s. Also, if I continue on, I can be near the far Goodwill, the one I wasn’t going to try going to, when it opens. It’s not so much the price—I know I shouldn’t give a shit about—what, a dollar, max?—but also suitability for a purpose, and since I’m not quite sure what that looks like, my obsessive-compulsiveness is making me want to check both Goodwills in town, even though one is, realistically, never on my way to anything, but not quite out of the way from where I find myself sometimes, the time it takes me to walk from one to the other is easily worth more than a dollar.
So I’m blundering more-or-less toward McDonald’s, but, really, keeping an eye out for, like, a bush on the side of the road, anybody’s yard I can piss in. Sometimes I wish I had less shame. But also I’m kind of along a main road, people are starting to wake up, even though it’s Saturday, and I don’t feel like getting bit or even barked at by some guard dog while I’m trying to piss on his property. So even though I’m ostensibly going to run into a McDonald’s at some point soon, really, in my mind, I’m thinking, “Jesus, I need to find somewhere soon.”
I even start down a few dead-end roads, knowing at least they’re immune to through traffic, but really don’t find anywhere I wouldn’t easily be spied by anyone glancing at the nascent sun out their window, to find me whizzing in their front yard. So, starting down a through-road beyond which is Micky D’s, but also well covered in foiliage and little trafficked, I’m appraising people’s hedges. I finally see a little nook not easily within the line of sight of anyone’s window, and think, “Fuck it, I’m going for it.” But—what’s this? Ah, urethra-blocked by morning pedestrians! Actually, one’s getting out of her car and socializing… OK, fuck this, I’m just going to McDonald’s. But as I continue, right before the intersection with the main road— What's this? Some sort of small office tucked in the residential neighborhood? Landscaping galore? Hallelujah! I see the morning pair starting to disperse and make some sort of pretense of checking whether one of the food joints around the corner is open yet… but I almost immediately double back to the office building as they’re walking the opposite way, on the other side of the street… I am going to go behind this building and unleash a— No, wait? What’s this? Oh, all these trees in front of the office building are even better; that much closer! My bladder is practically rejoicing now, singing a song of joy as I duck behind a wooden partition and get ready to water the tree trunk of this tastefully gardened… whatever-it-is; probably a pediatrician or a psychologist or something. “Easy little guy,” I tell it; in fact, I’m worried a drop or two may have escaped at a few false-alarm prospects for relief along the way. Really, I should have just clenched my sphincter, taken a deep breath, been resolute, and thought about something else, firm about waiting till I got to McDonald’s, the proper societally-ordained receptacle for my urine, regardless of if there was a line for the bathroom once I got there or whatever. But I’d given my body too much false hope, and now was the time. I fumbled with my jeans, unbuttoning them and reaching to yank down the front of my boxers and— Oh, God, no. No, no; hang on, hang on; not yet!
I’ve pissed myself. This has literally never happened in my adult life. Or even in, like, grade school. While still trying to somehow remove my underwear from between the exit valve of my dick and its intended target the switch got thrown early and hot, clear urine started gushing forth before I’d fully figured out how to remove my jeans, and my boxers. I feel ashamed as the remaining stream snakes its way out of me, leaving my muscles feel relieved. It’s the same muscle even, a failure of the part of the mind that controls the sphincter, that self-loathing disappointment as when you finish too quickly. If only, if only, if only, you find yourself saying, trying to rerun the chain of events leading up to the breach in your mind, but, really, if you’d been present and aware of your thoughts in the moments before it probably wouldn’t have happened. Jesus, I didn’t even have that much piss, relatively speaking. I mean, I had to go bad, but just normal I’ve-had-a-lot-to-drink bad, not long-car-ride-so-long-I-time-it-and-I-swear-I-pissed-for-like-a-minute-and-a-half bad. I’m grateful I happen to be exercising uncharacteristic foresight and happened to have another pair of underwear in my bag this time—though certainly not forseen for anything like this. God, I hate getting old. I need to take better care of myself, like Andie was saying last night. But it’s hard when you’re sleeping outside. I slink toward the McDonald’s anyway, now to change my boxers, checking the dampness of my jeans and feeling the wetness cool in the morning air.
The stall in the men’s bathroom is—thankfully—unoccupied—I don’t want this wetness to seep any further, and I go in there and yank down pants, setting my bags on the changing table, now trying to plotting out how to remove my jeans and boxers, put on new boxers and then my pants again, without my bare feet touching the floor of the McDonald’s men’s room. Ah, fuck it, I figure; it’s not the cleanest, but, let’s be fucking real, neither is any public rest facility, and I’ve been kind of meaning to take a shit since last night, since you’re here and your pants are down anyway, why not take a dump. So, dutifully wrapping about eight layers of toilet paper between my hand and the seat, I wipe it down, and then place the “sanitary” paper liner to sit on.
Damn. No Twitter reception in the toilet.
Lord knows what I’ve eaten (actually, I do—some ridiculously large two-patty burger for lunch—yes, two patties. What was I thinking?? It didn’t really register when I ordered… but it was good. And then about half a dozen doughnuts and a brownie for dinner.) and it’s not exactly falling right out of me. Also, because it’s that hard, struggle-to-get-out kind, when I’m convinced that all the major tonnage has made its way through, wiping is a bit of a chore. Klingons on the starboard bow, if you know what I mean. So I lean over to finally clean up this crime scene monstrosity ’neath my loins… and the stupid automated flusher sprays splash-back all over my bare ass, sucking the toilet set liner out from under me. God, I hate that. I give the seat another wipe-down for good measure, sit back down on the edge, and commence to doing as satisfactory a job as I can in as little time as possible.
Then I hear the distinct sound—I know it from just a few nights ago, myself—of vomiting. It happens once. Where? The urinal? The sink? This cannot be good. Then again. Oh, God; I’m usually pretty fastidious/compulsive/nuts about these things, but an ever-so-slight modicum of diligence goes down a notch; as soon as I can convince myself the paper’s clean, I’m out of there. Whatever’s happening out there, I don’t want to wade through. Especially not wearing sandals.
The door to the stall rattles. “Occupied,” I yell, “I’ll be out in a sec!” “I feel sick,” a voice replies, and I’m frantically tearing at the paper, violently dragging it across my anus, my mind flitting to what a shame it is that my less-than-pristine asshole may disgrace/spoil these fresh, clean underpants/boxers. I try to remember what kind of urinal it is; undoubtedly one of those new, low-flow kinds. Jesus, how much did it splatter? I wonder. I finally finish, stand up, the stupid, unthinking robot flushing for a third time behind me, and quickly step through my clean boxers, onto my shoes, then pull on my pants, grabbing my stuff and beating a hasty exit out the stall door. A man in a moustache and a leather jacket woozily stumbles into the stall behind me, and I debate even bothering to wash my hands, but being as the floor looks clean and the sink doesn’t appear vomited into, I can’t not after Number Two. Still, I soap and rinse as fast as I can and don’t even really bother with the hot-air hand dryer—then hit with the realization: dude barfed into the trash can, the old standby—before rushing out of the restroom. I hear the robot flush once more, no doubt backsplashing into this man’s face, as I exit.
It is 6:58 am.
Note to self:
Writing will feel effortful. Do it anyway. Even a poorly written, sentence fragment-laden rough draft will tell you more than a perfectly-crafted paragraph that never gets written.
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